


One of Those Nights

by Ms_Julius



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Julius/pseuds/Ms_Julius
Summary: It is an off-night, Smithers can tell it instantly.So he stays. He always does.





	One of Those Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work with these two, have mercy!  
> Just kidding, be as cruel as you like, it helps me improve.
> 
> This work is inspired by @hrgwin 's amazing art, which you can see at the end of the fic.  
> If you wanna check out their other awesome works, here's a link to their Tumblr: http://hrgwin.tumblr.com/

Walking in a long, dimly lighted hallway, Smithers couldn’t help but frown as he let his eyes swept through the  empty main hall, seeing no signs of movement or indications that anybody had used the room whole day. Normally there would be a newspaper lying forgotten on the side table, or perhaps an unwashed coffee mug left on top of a pile of unfinished worker forms. Something to imply that someone had been in there at some point. But now, everything was resting neatly at its place, even the worn-out pair of slippers were put down on their right spot next to the closet door.

It made him worry.

Without consciously noticing, he picked up his pace as he rounded the final corner of the corridor and started to climb a set of stairs leading to the second floor of the house.

The mansion was eerily quiet. There were no distant sounds of footsteps, no rasping of clothing moving against the floor tiles. Nothing, not even a silent humming of a radio left on.

There were times, albeit not often, when his employer would sink into a mood. A melancholic, anxious state of mind during which he was nearly impossible to interact with, his gaze glazed and directed to the farthest wall of the room, unblinking. He’d not move nor eat, and had regularly refused to talk to a professional about it, despite Smithers’ constant persuasions. He would shut down, pushing everyone outside.

There had been occasions where this had led to disastrous accidents including glasses of wine and bottles of his prescription medication. Those were the times when Smithers’ wondered if his own heart would give out before Burns’ did as he watched the fragile body be moved out from the front doors, pale hands lying limply of the covers of the litter.

It hurt more than Smithers was willing to admit.

He had tried his best. He had to believe that, regardless of the backlashes he received every time he saw the empty look in Burns’ eyes, the way he would leave the plant in Smithers’ care while retreating into his estate, all door and windows sealed shut.

Smithers sighed, turning his head upwards to look at the platform between the second floor and the other set of stairs. The oaken door on top of the staircase was left ajar. His eyes widened, a shallow gasp forcing its way out of his chest as his gaze stayed glued to the carved pattern on the surface. He climbed over the last few steps in hurry, nearly stumbling over before managing to haul his arm over the metallic handrail. His left hand curled tightly around the railing, stabilizing his movement. The fingers of his free hand were pressed into a fist, his skin glowing hot and yet trembling. In the silence surrounding the house, he could almost hear his own heart thumping against his rib case, the sweat of his brows dropping through his eyelashes. He let them fall, gaze still set to the narrow ray of light coming from the gap between the door and the frame.

It shouldn’t be like this, he shouldn’t automatically assume the worst, but he couldn’t help himself.

The entry was right in front of him, the faint light flickering slightly, as if something had moved past it. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his mouth, Smithers pushed the door completely open. He stepped partly inside, knocking quietly on the wooden frame before entering the room wholy, closing the door behind him with a silent click.

They were in a private library. From the stale scent of the air, Smithers knew that the door had been closed the whole day, trapping the warmth into the spacious room and raising the temperature as the time went by. The only sources of light seemed to be a feeble lamp on the writing desk, and a bright flames dancing in the fireplace, the pile of ash much bigger than it had any right to be. The windows around the walls were drawn shut, thick curtains isolating them from the outer world. It made the space feel rather claustrophobic, if one allowed their mind to wander.

Smithers leaned in further. There was an armchair placed before the fire, facing the flames. From his position near the door, Smithers couldn’t see clearly in the low lighting, but he was fairly certain he saw someone casting a shadow on the fitted carpet. As he was about to start walking towards it, a rustle of paper against paper echoed in the room. Over the rest of the chair, a slim wrist poked out, grabbing a half-full glass from the tabletop and slipping back in the shadows.

Slowly, Smithers made his way deeper into the room, never taking his eyes off from the chair. His footsteps silenced by the heavy rug, making his approach soundless. He kept his pace even, taking the time to calm his own racing heart before coming to a stop behind the leather seat. Bending forward, he rested his hand on top of the back of the chair, releasing a hushed sigh.

“Sir, it’s past midnight.”

“... I know.”

The voice came out restrained, and the slight crack in it cut like a knife in Smithers’ heart.

It was one of those nights.

Collecting himself and running a hand through his own messed hair, he moved to the side of chair, his back now towards the fireplace as he knelt down. The green indoor jacket he wore was thrown over the small table to his right. Stretching his body out with a weary exhale, he lifted his arms and set them casually onto the warm leather.

“You should be in bed.”

For a moment, there was no answer, only the rattling of the fire filling the space. Sometimes the hard nights went like this, in a complete silence, and Smithers was okay with it. At times they’d talk and talk, far into the night until the older man would slump limply against the pillows of a chair or a couch, too tired to make his way to his bedroom in the fourth floor.  

Smithers wasn’t sure which ones he prefered.

When the silence had lasted some time, he tried again with a gentle murmur. “It’s going to bother you in the morning, sir. A sleepless night rarely brightens anyone’s mood.”

A non-coherent mumble was to be expected. Now Smithers was close enough to take a look at his employer’s slender figure, his eyes skimming over the delicate, forceful fingers clasped around a book. When he leaned in closer, he saw the pictures plastered to thin slices of paper, mostly in black and white. The outlook of them revealed their years of wear, few pages torn apart from the binding and some missing completely.

He hadn’t seen this one before.

“Sir, did you hear what I said?”

No answer, but he was a patient man. Separating his feet slightly, Smithers took more comfortable position on the floor and allowed his thoughts drift as he waited. It could take time, but at this moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. The feelings of fatigue and mild annoyance washed over him, all too familiar by now, lulling him into a shallow slumber filled with aimless images of their former sleepless nights. Their conversations, their hours of silence. The gloomy atmosphere that seemed determined to taint any private moments they had together within the walls of this house.

After a while, the unseeing eyes staring at the fire began to blink, the blue gaze slowly coming to focus as Burns lifted his head. Still partly engaged in the mist of his own mind, he reached out with a trembling hand, fumbling to find the glass he had left on the table.

The movement was enough to stir Smithers out from his own light sleep.

“Is it starting to blow over, sir?”

The older man visibly jolted at his voice, lanky shoulders raising as the startled eyes snapped to meet his.

“Smithers?”

He smiled, despite the pain hacking in his chest. “Yes sir, it’s me.”

He wanted to add _“again”_. He really did.

But the well-known touch of tenderness kept him back.

Burns’ eyes grew wider, a frown forming to his face as he turned slightly away. “I- I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch who I was talking to for a moment there.” He cleared his throat, his gaze slipping down into his own lap where the album was still lying open. “There were... other things in my mind.”

“So it seems.” Smithers pulled himself upwards, covering his mouth with his hand when a yawn broke its way past his lips. He threw a quick glance at Burns, taking in the slumped posture of his shoulders, but sighing in relief when the still fingers loosened their grip of the album. “Do you wish to talk about it this time?”

It was painful to watch as Burns’ gaze immediately dashed down, his hands moving to cover the pages of aged pictures, unaware of the fact that Smithers had seen them already. However, some sense seemed to trickle back to him while doing this, since he looked briefly up to his right, locking his eyes with Smithers grey ones.

“And if I do?”

Soft smile tugged the corners of Smithers mouth, his eyes shifting to more calm shade as his hand rose to press lightly against the much fragile one. “Then we shall talk.”

It usually took Burns a few minutes to gather himself back together after his fits. This night was no different, and Smithers settled to watch silently as a pale hand combed through the wispy hair. The gesture was common at this stage, a nervous tic that happened every time the older man was at loss or unsure how to proceed. But it was a sign of trying, and that was all Smithers wanted at this point.

“Smithers, do you ever feel like you have been playing a part your whole life?”

Not an opening Smithers had been expecting, and he could not stop the frown from raising to his brows. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

It was clear that the topic was an anxious one as the speed of the hand twisted in the gray hair increased, the blue eyes staying nailed in the photos but remaining unfocused. The pained, quiet voice spoke out again.

“Why, when I look back, all I can see is how false it all seems now?” The distressed gaze finally darted up, latching onto Smithers own with a restrained fervor. “Is it normal to feel that way, Waylon?”

For a moment, the younger man remained quiet, rubbing the leather of the armchair absently. He didn’t know how to answer without revealing too much, unwilling to tear open the old wounds. It had taken him a long, very long time to move on, and hurling himself head-first back to that turmoil did not appeal to him the slightest.

The anguished eyes staring at him broke his resistance after mere minutes.

“I do indeed know the feeling, sir.” He took a short gasp of air. “And no, it’s not supposed to feel like that.”

Connection between their eyes snapped, Burns turning his gaze downwards once again.

“I see.”

There were no words for a while, just two men sitting silently in the all too warm room filled with books, the digital clock on the far table ticking away. The temperature in the library had climbed up even higher than it had been once Smithers had came in the room, and now he was forced to roll up the long sleeves of his dress shirt as the flames continued to dance in the fireplace. From the corner of his eye, he caught a sight of the nearly empty bottle of wine sitting at the edge of the otherwise clean table right next to the chair, within arm’s reach. It evoked the question he’d meant to ask after he had seen the state his employer was in.

It did not come out as a question.

“You have been here all day. You never went downstairs.”

“No, I did not.” The flinch in the frail figure shot a nail of sorrow through Smithers own chest. “I saw no need for it today.”

“Ah.” With reluctance, he let the topic drop, instead focusing his attention to the pile of ash stacked in the front part of the furnace, and his eyes trailed from the fire to the open album and the blank spaces between photos. “And you have been... reminiscing?”

Burns’ hands curled protectively around the tattered holder, his fingers stroking the yellow pages vaguely. “You could say so, yes.”

“I take it did not go too well.” He glanced again at the half-bare book, seeing the difference in the color of paper between spaces. Something had been removed.

There was a chip in the normally steady, sometimes even cocky voice. “I burned a lot of them, Waylon.”

The pain splitting its way to the older man’s face, pushing a lone, slow tear down to his cheek.

He couldn’t watch it any longer. Throwing his typical cautions to the wind, Smithers came up to his feet with ease, his stable arm wrapping tenderly over the narrow shoulders as his oldest friend let himself unfold, sinking into the embrace he would typically wrestle his way out.

It began with a series of muffled sobs, the slim body rocking back and forth as the tears flowed, and ended with a shivering inhale before the tired man sagged entirely against Smithers side. They were now both sitting in the seat, Smithers hanging partly outside due to his more sizeable build. The heat from the fireplace was starting to get obnoxious and the still air filled with the mild scent of smoke tickled his nose. He did not mind, not when the situation was nearing its end and he could sense the cohesion flowing back to the figure beside him.

“They were old pictures from my youth.”

Smithers remained quiet, letting his evenly breathing do the talking as he tightened the grip he had of the other man’s shoulders.

Soon, the dry voice spoke again.

“I came to despise them. Not then, not at the moment they were taken, but over time.” Blue eyes, still fuzzy and clouded, refused to look directly at Smithers. “They were false. Images of my smiling, charming dates, their eyes set solely to my thick wallet. Countless photographs of dinner parties full of people I hardly ever knew, their forced smiles mocking me as if they truly desired to be there.” A shimmer of anger stained his tone as he went on. “None of them knew me, nor did they want to. It was an act and I, foolishly, played along.”

A familiar train of thought ran through Smithers’ brain, his mind wandering towards the hidden corner of his heart where he kept all his emotions bottled up, waiting for an opportunity to push them forward. All of his loneliness, the fading hope that made him stay day after day, all of that could lead into something now, if he gave it a fighting chance.

Deep in his thoughts, Smithers shook his head, running a hand over his shaggy hair. Perhaps he could take the step tonight. It seemed possible, if not terrifying at the same time.

But then again, he had been terrified of being found out for years now, hadn’t he?

Still he found himself taking an easy opening.

“You’ve made a quite impressive fortune for yourself, sir. Surely that counts for something?”

Burns eyes came up to meet the solid look, his brows wrinkling down in a dark grimace as he sniffed.

“I am starting to believe that it’s the root of my whole misery.”

The next gaze Smithers shot at him was a surprisingly serious one, the grey eyes unblinking and firm while the lithe frame pulled himself up from the leather seat, offering an open hand to pull him up as well. Shortly they were standing face to face, chests almost touching as the younger of the two spoke out calmly in the stale room.

“What exactly is it that you wanted in life, sir, if not money and fame?”

The formal title sounded forced on. Upon hearing the question, Burns’ eyes widened slightly and he took a step back, putting some space between them. His uncertainty was clear as day and he eyed his assistant with a wary look, unused to the way the usually meek man had taken the control of the situation.

But he couldn’t stop himself from answering to the honest stare. “I wanted something real, Waylon.” His eyes dropped, unable to maintain the searing connection forming amidst them. A new flood of despair started to cling to him, in spite of his resistance. ”But now, I am beginning to think it might be too late to -”

The sudden yank of his already wrinkled button-down shirt caught him completely off guard, nearly throwing him off balance if not a pair of strong arms coming to wrap themselves around his waist, steadying him in the middle of his fall. Before he had any chance to ask what was happening, a brush of soft, gentle lips closed around his owns, keeping the splutter of words inside as they deepened their hold.

For a long moment Burns just stood there, eyes squeezed shut and his arms at his side, unsure what to do, or if he should do anything at all. Gradually, he lifted his hands, smoothing them up along Waylon’s ribs until finally setting them down on the collar of his shirt and in the middle of his back, desperately putting pressure to his touch in a vain hope that the contact would last a bit longer, allowing him more time to adjust.

It felt _real_ . It felt so unbelievably _right_.

At the end, they had to pull apart with a heavy gasps for air, both of them bearing flushed cheeks and disheveled hair, eyes still locked together. Smithers’ posture softened and he leaned back, the serene smile not faltering at all as he kept the older man at arm’s length, caressing lighty at his trembling forearms. The sincerity of the scene hit harder than he had anticipated, and Burns’ couldn’t prevent his eyes from lowering. The blush blazed on his skin, the embarrassment quickly catching up with him when he fully realised what had just passed. He swallowed with obvious difficulty, drawing Smithers’ attention away from their now entwined hands to Burns’ distressed gaze.

A soothing hand pulled away from their clasp, coming to sweep gingerly against the heated cheek. Swiftly, he surged onwards, pressing a light kiss to the other one.

“It is never too late, Monty.”

They stood there for a long time, bodies nestled tightly together, Burns’ head resting peacefully on Smithers’ raising chest. Neither of them wanted to move, and after a while Smithers began to carefully maneuver them back towards the armchair they’d abandoned earlier. The short distance took them quite few minutes to manage, but eventually they were both seated side by side on the seat, Burns lying partly on Smithers’ lap in order to them to fit. He did not complain, merely sighing as they settled down and carefully, almost hesitantly wrapping his own arms around Smithers’ middle.

The dim light on the table was clicked shut, the library plunging into the darkness colored only by the dying flames of the fire. A distant tapping of raindrops hitting the roof far above joined together with the tranquil seething of the coals, carrying the two men gently over the edge of the consciousness.

The two of them would stay there until the morning.

 

©http://hrgwin.tumblr.com/, both pictures posted with a permission from the artist.


End file.
